The She Demon
by ShortSindrome
Summary: There is a new character thrown into the mix in the Battle of the Smithsonian. Little does anyone know that this new character holds, is, a key to the victory of winning this battle, this great battle the the world will never know. Rated T to be safe.
1. Introduction

**First and foremost, the title may be only temporary, it depends. I just came up with something quick and hope if fits in with the rest of the story. So, yeah. Don't get mad if I decide to change the title as the story goes on. First story in a long, LONG time so...sorry if my quality of writing has dropped, considerably, and I'm also sorry if you run into any spelling or grammer errors; I did spell-check, I just mistype sometimes, so warning in advance. Also, I seem to have an absolute obsession with commas: blame my dad, seeing as he's a grammer and writing freak and majored in English for no apparent reason, just for the heck of it. Always looking over my shoulder, correcting my 'terrible' grammatical (if that's a word) mistakes. But, looking towards the bright side, I've finally gotten up the nerve to once again begin my writing! So, yay! Also, this is my first story that's not about Warriors so yay again. I really hope you enjoy, flames are somewhat amusing, and, as always, R&R, PLEASE. I could use some critique. Some cheering on might be nice as well. x.x But, if you would please, not be too harsh. Just some pointers on how I can improve would be nice. And remember, this is more of an introduction to my character, so it's not supposed to be total straight-forward or action-packed. That'll come later. Rated T, just to be on the safe side.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Night at the Mueseum. I only own my little character.**

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I am the cat that they keep in the storage. I am the cat that the security guards view as their little rag-tag of a mascot. I am the cat that they keep to kill the mice, scare the rats, and to pretty much just save a little more of the nasty stuff they call 'put-to-sleep' medicine for the reject animals that really need it. In other words, I am the cat they keep out of the kindness of their hearts.

I live in the basement of the Smithsonian museum, or, perhaps, should I say, museum_s_. Or would it be the storage room of the museum_s_? Then again, it is awful big, so I don't much know if you could call it a 'basement'…But, for the lack of a better word, I guess we shall just have to settle with calling it the 'storage room' of the Smithsonian.

Quite an interesting place, really. Interesting for a cat, anyhow: lots of places to sleep, plenty of food, nearly complete privacy and silence…that is, until that mouse-brained creature of a monkey brought that cursed tablet down in to disturb the peace…but we'll get to that later, shall we? Now, back to the perks of the storage room…where was I, again? Privacy…silence…lots of sleeping accommodations-can't run out of them really. Feeling in need of something soft and bouncy? Go on over to the antique furniture section. Might have to rip up a few plastic tarps, but what the heck? This place can spare a few. Don't know why old furniture needs tarps anyway. It's not like anyone's going to sit on them…Well, scratch that. I, the guardian of the storage room, will sit on them. Back on topic, however…Feeling that all that softness and squishiness is giving you an awkward sleeping position? Head on over to one of the many, many wooden crates or semi-cars around here. Lots of them. Lots of color selection as well. Can get a bed any color you want, just gotta look a bit. Or how about you're feeling like you want to get up somewhere high? There's lots of gorilla and jumbo shelves around here…very tall, they are. Very satisfying to one who finds themselves in need of being up somewhere high. Why would you want to sleep somewhere high? Well, I don't know why; I guess you get kind of paranoid being in the dark down here all the time…sometimes the shadows are not what they seem, my friend. Sometimes the shadows are not what they seem.-But, back on topic, and through all that mindless babbling of mine, I've just remembered where I was in speaking of the perks of the storage room: darkness. I absolutely adore the darkness. Only a few lights down here, and those are dimly lit, just for security. Makes sleeping very easy. Also trains the vision. Makes the eyes sharper, the mind clearer. Well, except of course when I get lonely-yes, lonely-down here. Did you know that a cat, with as much pride and self-respect we possess, could get lonely? Well, we can. Especially me. Of course, I know I'm not always alone. Sometimes those security guards-very sweet and kind they are. Morons, but sweet-will come down here, whether it be a dare by their guard friends or just to test their own level of courage by braving the twisted, nasty corridors of the Smithsonian…I don't always know. But they do seem to like me. Are fond of me, even. Whenever I appear, just out of the hallways and passages of the storage room myself, they seem reassured. They'll pick me up, give me a stroke, say, "There's a good kitty. Yeah. You're such a brave little kitty. Too bad you have to spend your whole life locked up down here…" and whatnot, then will look down one of the many corridors, all dark and foreboding, their free hand holding out a flashlight, the beam trembling upon whatever they shine it over as their hand is shaking from fright, will gulp with a slightly dramatic finality to it, then will slowly, me in one arm, the flashlight in the other, creep down that first hall, slowly…ever so slowly…until they'll give one big shudder, maybe let out a little whimper, turn around quickly and, with stiff steps, hurry over to the huge light switch and turn everything on. Waste of power, but what can I say? They are humans with not at all the darkness-equipped vision I have. Pity. A poor pity it is. But their lack of sense and vision sure gets them and their annoying selves out of my home quicker than them getting lost in the dark maze of the storage room and eventually dying of starvation ever could. That it does do.

My most favorite security guard is probably the one they call 'Brundon'. Of course, his nametag says 'Brandon' but that's besides the point. I guess they either just forgot to put a 'U' on there or his parents didn't know a chuck about how to spell. Either theory will do. But back to it, my favorite is perhaps the security guard named 'Brundon'-out of laziness on putting those two annoying apostrophes there every time I mention his name, I will just put the word Brandon. I only hope you remember to pronounce it correctly.-The reason he is my favorite is because he's twice as scared of the dark as the other guards, jumps whenever I allow him to spot my reflectively glowing eyes before I emerge from my dark realm, always forgets his flashlight, and is allergic to cats, which does me nicely. Of course, I doubt he realizes this for he always picks me up when he comes down to give me my food and water, and, sometimes, repulsing as it sounds, will sneeze upon my beautiful fur of which I will have to clean all that disgusting mucus off of eventually, disgusting as it is. Despite that, however, I must say that he is my favorite security guard. And not only for his stupidity and lack of a brain, or his quickness on getting out of my home and allowing the peace to return, but also for his kindliness, his funny little disposition of friendliness and somewhat, albeit, irritating aura of quirkiness that seems to follow him everywhere…he's quite a character, that fat, videogame-addicted excuse for a man is. Rather amusing, even. If only slightly. And you must take into consideration that I only see him for, tops, five minutes about every two, three, times a month or so; in other words, for me to label him as 'amusing and friendly' in that short of a time period of which we commune, he must really be that amusing and friendly.

Well, besides the security guards, the slight description I gave you of my normal, everyday life and, I must add the rather rare but occasional new shipment of new exhibits to store, I must say that there is, pretty much, nothing else that ever happens down here and only one other thing to do, living every day and every night at the very bottom of the largest museum in the world, and that is read. Yes, read.

Odd as it sounds, I, as a cat, do read. Not many cats can. In fact, very few. But I, as on most things, am an exception. Do not stereotype, my friend. Never stereotype without exceptions, because there will always be some. The universe is quite a diverse place in which to live, which makes things interesting…especially when all you've got is the world's history to keep you company. Along with about a thousand plastic replicas of the people in history to go along with it. And I haven't even read all of them, have barely seen even half of a half of the things they store down here. Yet. However, as a side note, I must admit that it is somewhat creepy to have all those eyes, all those thousands of eyes, just staring at you. Constantly, without blinking. But that's something you will probably never experience, seeing as, if you are reading this, you are probably not a cat living in the storage room at the bottom of all the Smithsonian museums, pretty much all combined into one, which makes it the biggest museum in all the world. Perhaps even all of history, even. I haven't read about that down here, about if the Smithsonian is the biggest museum in world history. They probably wouldn't keep that information down here, anyhow, seeing as they do want to keep people coming. And who doesn't want to come to the biggest museum in world history? Not many people-with a liking for history, or for the world they live in, for that matter-would raise their hand to turn that opportunity down. Not many. However, like everything else, there are exceptions.

I must say that my favorite thing to read about down here, in the storage room of the biggest museum in-theoretically-world history, is animals. I, being a cat, am very much quite interested in animals: their anatomy, history, interactions with man, stories of companionship between them and man…all of that juicy stuff. It's all very interesting, absorbing, can make the hours pass like heartbeats. Then again, being locked up down here in, basically, a basement storage room, I never can tell what time of day it is. My life now revolves around pretty much two things: the time they bring the food, when I'm tired, and the time I spend reading. The only thing that really keeps time around here is, literally, my heartbeat: a constant, quiet, solid rhythm is has. Always there, never faltering. Unlike the rest of my life…that goes pretty much however the wind blows, however it wants to go, never a steady, unfaltering beat. Always an unpredictable, swinging song that has no harmony, nothing I can always count on. But I've gotten used to that. It doesn't bother me much anymore. Because, after all, when you're a cat, you always have something to hold on to, claim and never let go, and that's your pride. You have your pride, your self-respect, yourself, and that will never leave you. Well…hopefully. As I said before, never blot out all the exceptions or contradictions. There's always gonna be some.

In my time spent down here, measured by the heartbeats, in my wonderfully quiet, peaceful, dark home, lit only by the few florescent light bulbs which allow enough light down here to keep me from going, pretty much, insane, I have found that, out of all the exhibits, all the stories that each contain their own little tidbit of history, there is one story that I adore very dearly, a story that I prize most of all, one that I put above all other stories for its grandeur of faith and courage, willingness to save, and simply overall its unconditionally wondrous love, is the story of a man called Jesus Christ. Well, He wasn't exactly a man, or, at least half of Him wasn't, for, according to His story-of which I found in a rather old book down here, all dusty and grimy it was for it hadn't been used for a very long time-He was half man and half god. Or, in other words, a child of a man and a god, a, more specifically, god known as a god called God, or in, apparently, His chosen people's language, a god named Jehovah. Quite an authentic name, it is, Jehovah. A very specific name and, from my being down here, I have learned that this particular names means something very, very divine…_Extremely_ divine… It means 'He Causes to Become' or, more simply put, 'I Am'.

I Am. It's a very distinguished name; not very many have a name like that, no. No, most people you come across are named after more simple things, things that are pretty or admirable to the human mind, such as flowers, or warriors, or great rulers or beautiful places, water or fire, courage and love…But rarely, very rarely, if ever, do you come across a being with a name such as the like of 'I Am'. It's a very divine name, a name that holds so much meaning yet which takes so little to speak…Very simple yet so complex, which is a hard state, I assure you, to achieve. At least for the human mind. But a god? Especially _this_ god, this…well, _being_ described so vaguely yet so thoroughly in this book that concerns the tales of this man, this other being, named Jesus Christ…I Am's Son. It is a very interesting, very true tale, it is. And the Book in which I found it in, the book known as the Bible, it contains many other stories, great stories, all of them. And, according to this wonderful book, these stories, each and every one of them, are true.

I find that very incredible, that all these tales, stories of faith and, pretty much, the history of man's interaction with this God, this Jehovah, this I Am, is all very wondrous. Very…I don't know…unearthly, I'll call it for lack of a better word. But, then again, perhaps there really is no word that can describe this Bible, this pure work of extraordinary writing, this history…It's very much amazing.

Of course, there are things that are quite extraordinary, as in it's almost seemingly impossible that they could happen, such as the things they call 'miracles' in this book. For example, apparently, in the story of Jesus Christ, this man-god is crucified, which, I believe, is a Roman method of killing a criminal and exactly three days after His death, He arises again…Conquers-turns back-death. Can you imagine that? I have heard of people cheating death, but conquering it? That is a…a whole 'nother story in itself. Something quite unfathomable. But, as I have stated, this is a world full of incredible things; you cannot always outlaw the impossible here. And besides, I should know a little about cheating death…Of course even I, a cat with all of my nine lives, cannot really _beat_ death, but I sure have cheated it. Many, many times have I cheated it. Probably more than nine. In fact, I know it's more than nine. I've conned death out so many times, even I, in my world of history, facts, and darkness, have not the memory to count them all. Barely care to remember how I almost died in most of them; I've seen my life flash before my eyes too many times to remember each and every one of my near-death experiences. And besides, they say to enjoy life while you can, and surely they mean that you should not constantly think about dying if you are supposed to enjoy life, and who would find their death to be at all a desirable thing? Not many. Life is a gift, and you should always, always treasure it. After all, your life could end in the blink of an eye and you would be gone; that gift of life would disappear, just like you. Of course, like everything, there are exceptions; some do desire, wish for, wait for in earnest, for their death.

I am not an exception. I take heed to this gift of life of mine and I enjoy it. Of course, there are the bad times, whether they be incredibly boring or I read about something very sad and feel terrible or have a stomach ache from eating a bad mouse, but I do not yearn for my death. At least…not yet.

I do not fear death, however. I do accept death as a fact of life, as there must be a beginning and an end, but I do not wish for it. Not now. Perhaps, perhaps after many more years or perhaps if I fall down the wrong path in life and I find myself in an endless torture, one without an end until my life has passed, I shall wish for my death. But, so far, I have not fallen down one of those paths. I am glad of it, too. However, there, as I've said several times before, is an exception to this rule, this law of a beginning and an end, and that is the man, the man-god, I mentioned before: Jesus Christ. He lived, He died, yes, but He also rose. And then He didn't die again, no. No, He, according to this Bible book, then ascended into a place called 'Heaven' and now sits at the right hand of His Father, Jehovah, I Am. There, until the end of the age, He awaits until the end of the world, the end of the world as we know it, at least, draws forth. He will be the end of the earth. For, as His father, part _of_ this Jesus Christ Himself, says, "He is the beginning and He is the end. He is the Alpha and Omega. The First and the Last."

I don't know if I can believe, really, truly believe, this, however. It all seems just too…just too…extraordinary. But this world _is _extraordinary…So there really is no answer to whether this story, this tale, is true or not. I shall only have to wait and see, just as any other. I am quite sure that, if this Jesus Christ can conquer death, when He brings the world to and end, along with this life, I shall surely, not even with my great string of luck, not be able to cheat death again. Quite surely I shall not.

So, now that you have read of this, this little beginning to one of the many, many stories of me, the cat whom they keep in the storage room of the Smithsonian, the cat they keep out of the kindness of their hearts, hopefully you shall understand who I am and just exactly where I am coming from as you hear and read of this tale, adventure, of me. You shall know how I, the cat, begin to fit into all this…this mess that I am about to tell you about, this story of mine, and you shall know how my peace, a peace that I had managed to keep for so long down here as the storage room cat, is finally disturbed, and quite abruptly, I may say, and you shall know how I, the basement cat, shall fit into all of this. Surely, you shall.

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**First note: I came up with this whole idea, or story, more like, while playing with my little brother's Playmobile Egyptian set. I was just playing along with all the little figures, and suddenly I began to play out this story in my head. And it, like all my little games that eventually turn into stories, just kept growing and growing, and getting a bit better, that I decided to write about it. So, yeah. That's where this whole thing came from.**

**Anywho, I didn't put you to sleep, did I? Well, if you're reading this, I guess you're still awake, so that's good. This chapter, or, rather, introduction, was rather more of a train of thought than a straight-forward sort of thing. I know, I do realize I might cling to some topics a bit too long, but I was sort of just writing whatever popped into my head, revising a bit here and there where I forgot things, but mainly just a run of my thoughts. I also realize that I leave my character still somewhat vague, as in actual appearence and, of course, my little cat character's name. Don't worry, it'll all come later. Just remember, patience is a virtue. It'll all come in good time. I also know that this, so far, doens't have much to pertain to Night at the Mueseum...you'll just have to wait for that, too. But don't worry, it does have something to do with NatM. Thank you for reading and, please, R&R.**


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter two is up today, a Sunday, updated exactly a week after it was published, a schedule that I plan to keep myself strictly on... Thank you to my reviewers and please enjoy! R&R. It always makes me feel fluffy inside. xD**

**Disclaimer: I, sadly, don't own Night at the Museum.**

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I began the day I as usually do; yawning. I had decided to sleep up high this particular night, selectively choosing one of the many gorilla shelves I had at my disposal, choosing one which was somewhere near the middle of the storage room, down a most-regularly used walkway of mine-but, odd as it sounds, a never-before-used sleeping place was this particular shelf-which was bare of storage content as the people who brought down new storage items had probably been too lazy to try and heave themselves up this high in the air, let alone a ten pound-or so-manikin, and made myself quite rather comfortable on its uppermost shelf. Of course, it was covered with dust, but I didn't mind; giving it a single, easy sweep-over with my tail to clear away the worst of it, I jumped up and let my muscles stretch out into a rather comfortable position, my slim feline body in practically a perfect straight line.

It was there upon that shelf that I had resided to sleep for that day, having filled my head with images of gore and brave yet futile warriors as I read about the particularly famous Battle of Thermopylae where several hundred brave Spartan soldiers, having been betrayed by one of their brethren to the Persians, vowed to stay and fight a seemingly impossible battle, guarding a secret mountain pass not formerly known to the Persian king, Xerxes, as the Persians rained down upon them, allowing the rest of their warriors to escape and, hopefully, defend Sparta. Quite an epic battle that was, a true feat of courage. And, with these thoughts in my head, I spent the night dreaming and wondering of that battle, seeing myself as one of the Spartans, despite my being female, and fighting just as hard and as bravely as any of them-till the end, at least. Or I viewed myself from the other side, as one of the Persians, fighting, perhaps, among the Immortals, a special group of 10,000 or so soldiers of which the Persian king took great pride in. Just as the Spartans, but much less desperately so, the Persian warriors of that day were very valiant, though not for the same cause.

I didn't know what time it was when I awoke, seeing as I never know what time it is here. I guess it was past the early morning, for my dishes had already been refilled-that of which I heard, loud and clear during my sleep for it had even woken me up-, something I rarely-except for this one time-miss, and you surely cannot expect one of the guards of the museum to wake up much earlier than 9 o'clock, not including the night guards of whom I do not believe are responsible for feeding me, so I assumed it must have been sometime of middle-morning.

Climbing-rather un-precariously-down from my sleeping perch, I sat myself down directly below my prior night's bed and found myself in somewhat of a slight predicament: to sleep some more, or to go find something to read, that was the question. As I thought, I twitched my tail, glancing about my home, down one corridor here, down another there, crates and boxes and all sorts of large trinkets and small trinkets decorating the shelves, some catching my eyes, some quite familiar as I remembered reading upon those certain exhibits.

Still pondering over what I must decide to do, I unconsciously gave a paw a lick, tasting that old flavor that dust holds to it as I lapped it off. Flattening my ears, wrinkling my nose a bit and grimacing, I scowled, irritated, at my paw; I hated that old taste. It's just...nasty. But, when you're a cat, you can certainly not do with going dirty; so grooming yours paws was just, simple as that, unavoidable, no matter how bad they tasted.

Making up my mind and deciding to do neither of these, I finished and headed down one hallway, the one on my right, a passage that I walked on often, one no mouse or rat had dared step paw on in a very, very long time; as long as I'd been here. Treading lightly along my trail-way, not pausing to give an exhibit-most of which, down this hallway, I'd already read up on-my even slight attention, I made my way down the many corridors and onward towards my currently chosen quarry: my food dish. Seeing as all that dust left a terrible flavor in my mouth, I decided that I must wash it down with something - anything, really. And, seeing as this is the basement of the Smithsonian, the most flavorful thing I had at paw was food. Rather bland food at that, but you can't have everything in life.

It did not take me long to get to where I was going and, upon arriving at the storage room entrance, I, to my irritation and utter disgust, quickly spied a little cluster of dark brown, nearly black, crumbs, laying just a few feet away from my food bowl and just a few yards away from the basement entrance. Judging by their size, I suspected rather keenly that they were cupcake crumbs, and, by their color, chocolate cupcake crumbs, a most very unappetizing dish to a cat, seeing as it could right well kill you. And it wasn't my repulsion that someone would drop chocolate on the home of a cat as much as my aggravation that someone would drop chocolate cake crumbs on a place absolutely begging to be the home to rats, despite the cat which already lived upon its grounds. Of course right now there weren't any rats, as I had killed all that I could find-quite tasty they are-but these cake crumbs, of which I certainly wasn't going to clean up, were just welcome mats on the doorstep to rat Heaven, something like a 'Welcome to the Neighborhood' gift for them. Not that I cared if rats lived here, as they are quite flavorful, but I do care that the people who keep me here expect me to keep the rats out and, if I don't keep them out, then they'll just throw me out and get a new cat, one that actually _likes_ helping people out. Scratch what I said before-they don't keep me out of the kindness of their hearts, they just keep me to scare the mice, kill the rats, and save a bit more of that nasty old 'put-to-sleep-' medicine. Now, I have nothing against humans; just don't expect me to go out of my way to help them, especially if they themselves have chosen my life's career for me, leaving me no say in the matter; I could have done many other things than scare rats and mice at the bottom of the biggest museum in the world: I could have been a house cat, a little animal people just keep for pleasure and, despite the protests, an animal which people practically worship with all the love and attention they give us felines…that is, if you're a pet cat; I could have been a barn cat, someone old Farmer Joe keeps to scare off the rats and mice in his barn which, I must say, has some perks compared to here, as in you get to sunbathe when off duty, get to taste the wind, tease dogs, see actual company that you can commune with, etc. Here, you don't get to do that; or I could have been one of those nursing home cats, the ones they keep in the nursing homes to give comfort to the elder people…I could have done many, many other things in life besides live down here, alone, in the dark, with thousands of manikins. But, sad as it is, I had no say in the matter, so here I am. Stuck.

But, I can't complain: this place has its perks, too. Such as all the things to read down here, that you couldn't get at old Farmer Joe's. The old boy probably doesn't even know what the definition of 'reading' is. I guess you could read a bit as a housecat, but seriously, who wants to be a housecat? You're a god, yes, but your also a pet: locked in, locked out, strung with an indemnifying collar-informing people that you are worshipped by this particular household and that you must be returned, which is a rather haughty statement, I mean, who with a _little_ humility wants to go out and yell to the world '_I am worshipped_!' Well, I don't. No, I'm kidding _of course _I do! I just thing collars are a rather undignified way of stating this, that's all-, 'Don't sit on this couch!', 'Don't sit on that couch!', you can't jump up here, can't sleep there... Believe me. I've heard the stories. I do not want to be a housecat. And, to tell the truth, I'm not all that good around people, much less elder people. I mean, sure, they could use some compassion, seeing as they're sort of locked up with nowhere to go-like a housecat, only with no godly perks-but I'm not one of those cats who does too well with those who don't handle me without their hands shaking a bit…So I wouldn't be a good candidate for choosing the next nursing home cat. I know, I'm mean and heartless and cruel, but I'm only telling the truth; the hard fact of life is, sometimes the truth hurts. Not all the time, but sometimes. What? You surely don't want me to lie, do you?

Anyways, back from my rambling and muttering of mindless things, my little train of thought, upon seeing those chocolate crumbs, those 'Welcome to the Neighborhood' gifts for the rats, I gave my lip a disgusted curl, twitching a whisker in repulsion. _How very, very rude_, I thought, flicking my tail-tip indigently._ Sure, they do bring me my food, but at least take your own food back up with you when you leave. _Always remember to be a good houseguest; it may get you on better terms with your host. And, when your host is working for you, no pay, just a measly bowl of cheap cat food and a little couple of mouthfuls of lukewarm water, you might _really_ try to stay on your host's good side. That way she'll continue to do her job, and do it well. Otherwise…well…don't expect to see many clean floors or no mouse holes around the museum storage room; I'll do my job, but where in the contract-that I never signed, by the way-does it say I'd do my job well?

Casting on last disgruntled glance at the chocolate crumbs, I flicked an ear and headed over to my food bowl: a cheap little bowl it is. Shiny tin, though can't see my reflection in it. Not much food in it, either. I think they only feed my about a half a serving, namely because they want me to keep room in my belly for the rats. Nice tactic - if all the rats weren't already gone. So, pretty much, I get about half the food any other cat would get. Not that it bothers me; I can do without a little food. Not that I'm fat, I just know how to make the stuff last longer.

First taking in a few bites of the food-pretty bland, it is-which managed, barely, to wash down the nasty old dusty taste, I swallowed that down then turned to my water: another shiny tin bowl, again without the ability to reflect. The water, unlike the food, is filled pretty well all the way, but it's not all that good, seeing as it's lukewarm. But I've gotten over that. Lapping up a few mouthfuls of water, to get the last of the food down my throat, I sat down, closing my eyes and raising one paw back up to my face, beginning to lick it with long, patient, smooth strokes, combing out the rougher patches of my fur with my bristled tongue. There still was a faint trace of dust there, but not much. Working my way, slowly but surely, down the length of my feline body, I just ignored it.

It takes a cat a good hour or so, every day, to get a thorough grooming done; with the dusty environment I live in, it takes about an hour and a half. Not that I mind; nothing better to do, after all. So on I work, with gentle, unwearied, long strokes of my rough tongue, like sandpaper, working my way from my paw to my chest, to my other forepaw to my stomach, from there to my lower back, from there to my tail, to my upper back-we cats are amazingly flexible-to my shoulders all the way until I was up at my ears and whiskers, of which I didn't lick myself. Instead, I gave one paw a big, wetting lick and, with time-given accuracy, smoothed my foreleg over first my ears, then my forehead, to my delicate, wonderful whiskers, probably one of the most important things on my body, seeing as I live in nearly complete darkness and have to feel my way around.

I finished grooming with a finalized, last swipe of a paw over my whiskers and, feeling rather satisfied with myself, I gave a little switch of my tail-tip then started off, getting to my paws without the slightest of sounds, delving back into the dark, dank, dusty unknown of the great Smithsonian storage room.

Padding in to one of the many hallways with barely a thought of where I was going, I settled in to a nice, easy pace, my gait carrying me like a gentle river carries along a piece of driftwood, slowly but surely, maybe even a bit lazily, making its way down the stream to its next destination, of which could be who-knows-where.

Walking to an, undoubtedly, rather unknown destination, I, simple as that, decided to go down into one of the deeper parts of the storage room, maybe find a corridor I hadn't traveled on much or, perhaps even, ever before.

With that in mind, I decided to make this new destination of mine as randomly chosen as possible and suddenly, quick as lightning, whirling to the left from my present course and, on my toes, leaping with such ease only possessed by us cats over a lower shelf holding several items including a old, Roman-looking warrior's helmet, a pair of skis, a laying-down manikin-buck naked-, and a model replica of an old pirate's ship, about as large as I am, I soared into the next hallway. Though, before we move on, I must mention that it is quite an assortment of items, really, to be all on one shelf, but that's the way it is down here: the people who bring in the storage find a shelf, fit as much stuff as they can possibly fit onto that shelf, then get out of here as quickly as they can. Not exactly the smartest idea of packing, but efficient in getting the job done. Quick, too. Besides, they aren't paid to make it neat and orderly - they're paid to get it down here. And that's exactly what they do.

So, back from my run-on of mindful chatter, I landed on the other side of the shelf with extreme accuracy of balanced measure, again on my toes, in another corridor, a little darker than the first, and proceeded to do the same with the next shelf, this one loaded with an assortment of old Eskimo equipment-including a whaling spear-, as well as a fishing pole, two portraits, presumably of kings, also presumably of British kings judging by their over-adorned jewels and their fancy-shmancy-looking golden scepters, old 1970's-looking roller skates, and a box full of who-knows. I sure didn't, neither did I care.

Landing in this corridor, I, without thinking, headed down a few five or so paces to the left of me, jumped over into the next corridor, this one with a bit more light, and continued on like this, randomly choosing directions in which to go, sometimes climbing a few shelves here, skidding around crates and boxes there, leaping atop semi-cars and down onto the other side, simply going deeper and deeper into the storage room, away from the entrance. Onto new grounds.

I had been going on as this for some time, going down or up a staircase or two, even, which isn't uncommon to find nor is it something that I rarely do, just adding more the randomness of my location, when I finally decided to stop, panting a bit, and just stood for a few moments, breathing in and out, slowly and certainly, trying to catch my breath back. I didn't know exactly where I was-not that I was lost; just follow my scent trail back the way I'd come, which wouldn't be hard-but I was pretty sure I rarely, if ever, came to this particular place…

It must have been somewhere near the lower parts of the storage room, seeing as I'd gone down a couple of staircases. Looking around, letting the surroundings sink in, I realized that I was surrounded by many, many gorilla shelves, all filled to the very last inch of storage space with items. Dust nearly completely covered the floor, making a nice, nasty carpet-mentally, I made sure of myself to keep on my toes, getting as little of the dust on my paws as possible. There seemed to be a majority of Egyptian things down here, from fake pharaoh's scepters, to a model of a mummified pharaoh, a wallpaper roll full of Egyptian hieroglyphs, to an entire model of a Egyptian battlefield, the little mini figures all in a glass case, riding into battle against-was it the Romans?-upon their little chariots, their horses surging wildly in front, manes and tails flying in a ever-frozen position, no wind probably ever having truly touched their fur, much less the hot winds of war. And all that was only on one shelf-looking at all the shelves around me, I found myself quite surrounded by ancient Egyptian relics. Or, at least models of relics.

Eyeing my surroundings about me in utter wonder, never having been in such a place as this particular part of the storage room, I tentatively got to my paws, not at all achy from my maddened dash here as I searched for somewhere new, and, swiveling my head up here, this way and that, I began to pad, slowly, forward, paw after paw, taking it all in with my eyes, my nose, my ears, -sadly-my dusty paws, and my whiskers.

Slowly I made my way down this corridor, looking upon each and every ledge of each and every shelf I came upon, spotting a little model sphinx here, taking in an entire Egyptian town map there, made in the 20th century-which didn't look all that accurate to me-, and spotting several spears of which, according to their little description place neatly beside them, were said to have belonged to royal pharaoh guards, guarding the imperial palace of combined Egypt of one of the several dynasties with ever-watchful gazes. Or, in this case, ever-ready poise, to strike out at any intruder with an iron spear-tip who dare disturb the pharaoh's wondrous home…and many other things. But, finding nothing to be of much more interest to me than a simple glance, I strode on, looking around some more, flicking my tail high in the air as I walked by.

Coming to the end of this particular corridor, I found a rather large semi-car blocking my path, a red one, my least favorite color, preventing my from going any further. This not at all an annoyance or discouragement to I, a cat, I simply gave my muscles a good bunching down, then, without further ado, sprang, nearly a straight eight to nine feet up in the air, hung suspended for a moment as I headed towards my destination, then landed with little more than a breath of a breeze to show that anything had made a noise down here at the near-bottom of the storage room. Nothing at all more than that little hiss of wind. Nothing at all. So, smiling rather proudly to myself at my feat and not bothering to look back at my handiwork-pawdiwork, should I say?-I flicked my tail up in the air, strode forward to the other edge of the car, and sailed lightly back down to the dusty ground, again with little more than a hiss of wind to announce my downward jump.

Looking around a bit at my new surroundings and finding myself, again, with ancient Egyptian artifacts, and again in a place I had rarely been to before, I glanced here, glanced there, down one hallway here, down another there, and set off to my left, deciding this was the best way to go.

Once again, I found myself walking past many ancient artifacts, this time seen a little more clearly due to the aid of a pale florescent light bulb on high overhead. Quite a few things I saw, again more maps, more warrior's swords and battle weapons, but, stopping to look at a rather interesting concoction of an Egyptian warrior's battle gear, at the bottom of one shelf, warrior armor and all, all on its side, or, if a person had been in it, on its back, surrounded by protective bubble wrap, the plastic peeking window so covered with dust it was rather hard to see, I suddenly caught a fleeting glimpse of something in the corner-something behind it, swathed in the darkness of shadows. Blinking once, then twice, I stared at the object for a few long moments, thinking, tail-tip flicking as it always does when I'm thinking, then, for once not caring about the dust beneath my paws, I climbed atop the battle armor, flattening myself low to the box and pinning my ears as so they would not touch the equally dusty roof of the next shelf above me. Stepping lightly and quickly over the box, leaving paw prints in my wake, I jumped neatly down onto the small, dark space between this box and the next, where I had spotted, very dimly, the thing I was suddenly so interested in. Now, just a whisker's-length away from the item, I sat myself down, staring, barely daring to breath.

Was this really, truly, could it even be, what I thought it was? Or is it a fake? A fake like all the rest of the things in here?

Still sitting, my breath coming back to me now, though in short, shallow pants, I decided, very reluctantly, very scared of proving my nearly impossibly hopeful theory wrong, to reach out. Reach out and touch it.

Gritting my teeth, my tail falling still with the great intensity of this matter, I closed my eyes shut tight, slowly, ever slowly, reaching out one forepaw, my right, and reaching forward, carefully. Just waiting to touch…

The very heartbeat my paw came to rest on that red stone, that object, that thing of such, suddenly, great importance to me, a jolt, an utter jolt, of warmth hit me, from nose to tail-tip, filling me with a warm, hot feeling that I hadn't felt in a long time-a very, very long time. It was on the moment of that contact that I instantly knew it was real; it wasn't a fake, not like most of these other useless things. Plastic replicas, all of them. Models. _Fakes._ But this…this was the real thing. This was true, not a lie, and it was something I had longed for, hoped for, for a long, very long, time. For, there, in the shadow of the Egyptian armor box, at the bottom of one of the many gorilla shelves, down at the near very back of the great storage room of the-supposedly-largest museum in world history, was a little block of red stone, a chunk of rock only a little larger than myself, it being so old that the edges had well worn away. It was instantly a very special rock, a brick more like, to me.

Letting out a breath of joy, closing my eyes in utter ecstasy, I feel forward, letting my whole body rest on the object before me, its ancient warmth, its old, old heat that it had attained over many years, something that it could never, ever rid itself of, seep into my suddenly cold body, bringing back the warmth to my blood-bringing back a warmth I hadn't felt in a long time. I had missed it. I was glad to have it back.

And so, it was there, at the near very bottom of the Smithsonian storage room, the underground vault, that I, with my ever-so-delicate cat's ability to hear, caught the somewhat rather distinct sound of something crashing, the rumble of the archive entrance door opening, the recognizable purr of machinery, and the rather distasteful shouts of men cursing.

**XxXxXxXx**

**Yeah...so, another pretty uneventful chapter. Sorry for any grammar or spelling errors - truly am. Not much of a 'OMG! WHAT'S SHE GONNA DO NOW?' sort of cliffhanger, but it was one at the very loosest of definitions. I would have written more for this chappie, but decided that this might be enough a strain on you people's poor brains. XP The brain can only take so much uneventfulness...No dialogue, either. Blar. For the sake of my readers, I will try to make my next chapter much, much, MUCH more eventful than my previous two...and have some actual dialogue. Sorry if I clung to some topics too long as well - need to get over that. Please, R&R. And thank you for reading! :3**


	3. Chapter 2

**Sorry I was a week late! D: It was just that I had a really, really busy week last week: Mom's birthday, a super-long school project due, lots of homework, first volleyball practice...a lot. So that's why this is late. Again, sorry! Dx Also, I had planned for this chapter and another chapter to all be one chapter...then I looked at the word count and saw a grand total of over 10k words and I was like, 'No way am I making that all one chapter!' So I cut it into two chappies. Sorry I lied: this one wasn't very exciting like I promised it would be, but the next one will be, that I'm pretty sure of, seeing as I've already written it. xD Anyways, please read AND review! And thank you very much to my two reviewers so far; you guys make me want-and try-to write faster. :3**

**Disclaimer: I dun own Night at the Muesuem. If I did-well, let's not get into that.**

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You know, the first thing you think when you hear men cursing-let alone shouting curses-you think, _What the heck is going on? Is someone dying?_ Well, maybe you don't consider the idea that someone is _dying_, but you certainly ought to think, _What the heck is happening_? And, when you live in nearly utter and complete silence at near all times, it's even a bit more of a concern. Especially when you hate noise. Or don't like people all that much. Or are a cat.

Of which I very much do, do, and am.

Utterly hate them all-perhaps hate is a bit strong, though very, very much dislike might cut it-, but I especially, very quite much more than the others listed above, dislike noise. It's downright terrible. Just awful. It makes my ears ring, my fur bristle, my ears flatten, and my whiskers twitch. Hate it. Absolutely despise it. With a passion, I might add.

Especially when those shouts are curses, something that might even irk me more. You know, I really don't believe in cursing; some may say it's only a word, but they, quite horribly, fail to realize that a word is not just a sound you make: it has a meaning. And, sometimes, it has a very vicious meaning; one that can make your ears ring, your fur bristle, your ears flatten, and your whiskers twitch. Be very careful what you do with words, my friend. They are not playthings that you can simply throw around and have fun with; they mean something. I suggest you remember that. It may save you a bit of trouble some day. It may even earn you a little respect, as seeing as you don't use them. Like I've always said, I believe that when people-and cats alike-resort to cursing, they are simply not capable of using a more proper, better, less vulgar, but with the same amount of power, word. I suggest you be very careful.

And so, there it was, I, lying at the near-bottom of the storage room of the largest museum in-supposedly-world history, desperately and ever-so-joyously clinging onto my newfound prize, a much-missed item, my elder red brick, it being so old that its edges had well crumbled away, leaving them dull and slightly dusted in maroon, that I heard the sudden-though not utterly shocking, seeing as visits to my home (not including the bringing of my daily food and water) are rare but not wondrous surprises to be savored and enjoyed for every precious moment-and, dare I say, rather coarse shouts and angry yells of men-that I presumed by the pitch of their voices-, the screech of the Smithsonian vault entrance being opened, the distinguished purring hum of a motor, and the ever-so-irritating sound of something, rather large, I thought, falling and crashing.

Now, seeing as I do live in near complete silence around ninety-nine point nine percent of my time, you would probably think my first reaction would be to jump-or at least jerk a little in surprise, even slightly startled by the sudden eruption of noise in my oftentimes quiet and peaceful home… Not at all. Not even close. In fact, the first thing I did do was roll my eyes, both irritated and annoyed rather than surprised or alarmed, for, as the fact goes, I am quite regularly bothered by humans; humans and all their noise and talking. Particularly I hate their little devices, little things with screens and, quite a lot, have little fruits on them…oh, what are those fruits called? Ohhh…What are those called…Oh, yes! Apples. Humans often, especially the delinquent night guards that feed me, have little devices, little tablets, with screens that move, -oh, the horror-make lots and lots of noise, and have _apples_ on them. I believe they are called _cell phones_, whatever those are. Isn't a cell a prison cage, somewhere where humans lock criminals? Or how about those tiny little things that make up human-and cat's-bodies? In fact, I do believe that the word cell can mean a lot of things-but what does it have to do with a little tablet device that has a screen, shows pictures, makes_ noise_, and has these weird just-out-of-college night guards talking on them about every single time they come down-or, a better question, why do they point it at me, press a button, and make a picture of _me_ appear on the screen? Of course, I am quite beautiful, perhaps a little lovely to look at even, with all my silky soot-black fur, interwoven and marked through with rather eye-catching moon-silver stripes-a silver tabby I think they'd call me. And my eyes, oh!, my eyes. Like little blue bouncy balls that sparkle, one of the night guards had told me as he had, like all of them, admired my beauty on one of his umpteenth attempts to brave the twisted labyrinth of the Smithsonian vault, probably another dare. However, seeing as his little developing mind probably couldn't fathom a better vocabulary description other than, "-Little blue bouncy balls that sparkle-" I'm sure it's safe to say that he probably meant, and he would have said this if he'd had a more, if only slightly, intelligent and well-developed brain, two points of utter astounding blue beauty, two little orbs of pure and extraordinary azule-as the good Spanish would put it-, tinted ever-so-lightly with the smallest hints and fathoms of turquoise, entwined with the most absolutely authentic touches of the lightest indigo, a very, very small amount, but there. Two droplets of astonishing splendor, fit not even to the lowest depths of the greatest king-for, very truthfully, it could only be such as that of a cat, and only the best of the best of cats, the children of Bast as the pharaoh's once said, that could possess such lovely, utterly gorgeous eyes. Magnificent works of art, they are. The creator of this stunning design should be absolutely proud of himself, just simply and bluntly proud. Quite nothing could equal to the sight of those eyes-quite nothing at all in the world…

And that's exactly what the night guard would have said, if only he'd had a better vocabulary and a bit of a more clever and/or poetic brain. But, sad as it is for all of us, he did not have quite such a well-developed brain, nor, probably, the cleverness or the ability to create poetry to even speak such as description as I've just shown you. Quite tragic indeed.

But, back and onward from my little going-on about noise that somehow, eventually, led to the splendor of my eyes, it was there, hugging on tightly to my newfound prize, my heart filled with a long-lost yearning which had, finally, been fulfilled at the site of the red stone, at the near-bottom of the largest vault of the biggest museum in world history, that I heard the crashing of something large, the purr of a motor, the straining cry of the poorly-oiled entrance to the storage room being lifted up, and the shouting curses of angry men, that I rolled my eyes, very much quite annoyed. As I've said, I was not at all surprised by the disturbance to my peace, not at all, but I was very much irritated. And, dare I say, somewhat curious. After all, it is somewhat rare to have visitors straying down to my dark, dusty home, filled with the thousands of eyes of the many manikins and exhibits that line my hallways and passages, something of which many might find a little bit creepy, if not just slightly disturbing, shouting and crying cusses out to each other, their voices raised in anger. And, I have to admit, I was somewhat curious.

So, twitching my whiskers, still rather irritated at the noise, I lifted my head from it being rested on the red stone, my red stone, and looked into the direction that the shouts were coming from, though it was utterly and obviously quite useless, seeing as I cannot see, despite my lovely cat's night-vision, through many, many shelves and rows of manikins and semi-cargo-crates, all decking and lining the paths and walkways of my great, and, albeit, slightly foreboding, home. But, despite the uselessness of it, I looked anyways, eyes trained forward, my ears, though protesting to the noise which was, from my position, rather faint though still annoying, pricked to catch the slightest sounds the voices made that carried through the hallways and passages and stairwells of the storage room, which was quite far, though not too far for my ears to pick up even a little bit of it.

Continuing to stare forward, off into darkness, I barely blinked as I heard another crash-this one not as loud as the previous. It was promptly followed by more shouts, however, for the record of the men, these words just as quite blasphemous, but, due to keeping the audience, I'll replace some words with some that are a little less…vulgar:

Man One, I'll call him: "Oh, good god! Can you not knock stuff over when you're trying to get the crud-darned thing in here? Geez! This is _fragile _stuff here, not your average, everyday crap."

Man Two: "Looks like everyday crap to me. All I see here is an oversized, ugly red semi-car."

Man One: -And I could imagine him rolling his eyes saying this- "There's stuff that's in there, you idiot."

Man Two: "I knew that."

Man One: "Of course you did. Now, are you going to just sit up there on your darned, lazy butt? Get down here and help me lift this stupid thing back up to where it belongs!"

Man Two: "Coming, Your _Highness._"

…

Yes, not your average conversation between to grown men…but, when your down in the basement of the largest museum in all world-history, you tend not to think about it too much. Besides the delinquent night guard's rather unintelligent chatter on their little _cell phones_, this is about all the conversation I get down here. So, I live with it.

Anyways, as their brief conversation came to a close, I found myself straining my ears forward, flickering them from time to time as if to get a better hold of the sound bouncing off the walls and jumbo shelves and semi cars, through the couple of stairwells, over and around the many, many manikins and the stored exhibits that accompanied them, all the way to my ears, very delicate pieces of equipment indeed. Very delicate. But I still clutched on to my red rock, the brick, still feeling its elder, elder warmth pulsing through me, returning an old feeling I had lost for quite some time. And I was very happy to have it back.

But I was also curious, to my surprise, and even rather yearning to go and see what was going on up above me-up where the men were. Thing was, I didn't really know why. As I've said, new shipments of storage are pretty rare, but nothing to be savored. Especially when the two workers shipping the objects liked to cuss and shout. A lot. And I hate noise, nearly as much as I hate cussing. But, and, albeit, it was a very strange feeling, I simply felt that I just had to go up there and see this new shipment…It rather startled me. And…it even might have frightened me. But only a little. Just a very little. After all, I was still in my home, the very heart of the place that I knew best. No one could outdo me in these tunnels, these twisted caverns, this labyrinth. No one knew these old, dusty passages as well as me, not even the Smithsonian owner could navigate this place like I do; like a ship's captain. This is my home, where I live and work and play-or, just sleep-and no one, except no one, should know this place better than I do. No one _could_ know this place better than I do. So why should I be afraid in my own home?

I didn't know. I truly didn't know.

But I was very much complied to go see these men-okay, maybe not so much the men-but this new shipment of stock. It was really just…a twist, one of many, of Fate. Or maybe old Destiny had put her old, playful hand-or paw-down in my life at this particular moment and just simply said, "Do it. Go and see." Simple as that really…But who could ever call the work, much less the plans, of Destiny-or Fate. Or, according to the Bible book, the wondrous 'I Am'-simple? Truthfully? No one. Absolutely no one. Only a very much well-organized and well-ordered and purposed being could do such a thing-a being with a plan, with a creation that it itself controlled, a being who knows all things. None of us, except they themselves, of course, are as such. Not a single one.

And, seeing as where I was in life and how very compelling this command of the one who controls all-whoever it may be-I would have very much and very willingly went right along with this new turn that-out of laziness, I shall simply call whomever they are, Fate-Fate had put forth to me…If only it had not been that I had happened to find this red stone, this wonderful stone that had been something I had yearned for for so, so very long, that held a warmth that I very much missed…If only I had not stumbled upon this scarlet brick, which was, probably, in fact, another twist Fate had lain out for me in it's great scheme for my life, I would have very readily went along. And, quite frankly, what a scheme it has been. After all, what better life can you get than being a cat, rather a incredible, beautiful, little astounding creature all on its own, that lives in the very bottom, the dusty, old basement, of the vault of the biggest museum in, supposedly, world history? Truthfully, I've seen those off quite worse. Very much quite worse off. I would say it would be…oh, perhaps in the top twenty. That is, if you look at how many lives there are and how bad or good your particular life can go. Of course, there would be others that would beg to differ. But differences are the spice of life. You live and you let live. Let each man have his own cup of tea and all that. Very true. All of it very true.

And so, having it been established that Fate had put forth this feeling, this rather unsinkable and undeniable sensation that just filled me from ears to the very last hair on my silver-and-gray tail-tip, and I would have been very willing to go along with it, but yet…yet I could simply not leave-_abandon _would be a more appropriate word-my red brick, the one that filled me with that ancient warmth, the one I had lost for, oh, so long. It just wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be good. In fact, it would be bad. Quite bad, really. For, as I turned my eyes away from the blackness, looking towards where the sounds of the shouts were coming from, and instead looked down towards the red brick, I felt a pinch of sadness tremor through me, making its way like a rather fat rat with thick fur that you can barely swallow down your throat through my body. I had lost this brick, this little rock, for so long…and yet, and just only after Fate had finally given me the way to it, to return to it and its comforting warmth, Fate had also directed me down another twist, another path, in my course of life. No, it was not a path I at the moment understood, neither comprehending the purpose nor the time or place that Fate decided for it to happen, but it did happen. It was happening. Here. Now.

And now the question was, Do I ignore Fate, or do I obey? In one situation I lose, and yet in the other situation I lose. For, in one, I disobey Fate, my perhaps creator, and in the other I lose something very special to me. Again.

For how can you ignore Fate? It is the almighty, the being that directs and posses, _created_, your life. For you were begot through another's path in life, and, therefore, did Fate not create you, too? And, if it did so, how are you capable of, how are you able to bear, disobeying the laws of Fate? For, when Fate tells you to do something, do you not do it? Or is it Fate directing you to not do what it told you to, laying down another trail that you must walk in your lifetime? That, no one will ever know. Only one shall know, and that one shall be Fate itself. It's a bit confusing, though, I must admit, even to the sharp, keen mind of a cat. Looking through all the scenarios and diplomats in such ponderings…quite a feat for the one who can finally answer. Not that anyone ever will.

And so there I lay, my paws resting-no, _clutching_-onto my red brick as the pulling tug of Fate's grew a bit harsher in the pit of my stomach, urging me, telling me, commanding me to go, yet still my heart did not want to leave my stone, only just so short a time after I'd found it, right here, near the bottom of the Smithsonian storage room, in a section very much largely possessed by Egyptian artifacts, and yet in the midst of them all lay a red stone, lying behind the shadow of the battle armor, at the very bottom of one of the many, many jumbo shelves, that of which I didn't know if I could ever find again for, despite the lack of natural elements down here in my labyrinth home, scents usually do fade…and I did not want to lose it again-never again. Closing my eyes and resting my head upon it, hugging it tight, I lay there for a few moments, the somewhat continuous crashes as the two men who were loading the new shipping stumbled and scrambled with the cargo they had dropped, or had knocked over in their clumsy way of getting the new shipment into the museum vault, the tug of Fate's growing ever steadily stronger the longer I waited, constantly commanding me to go... Leaving my eyes closed, I had one single thought echoing through my head, laying there, _I don't want to leave…I really, really don't want to leave…_

But by a few heartbeats later, I had already pulled myself away from the brick, slowly and stiffly-stiff from the wrenching misery filling my entire being, paining every last fiber of my little cat self-climbing up and over the Egyptian battle armor box, out of the shadows of the jumbo shelf, into the darkness, lit only slightly by the florescent light bulb high overhead, into the alleyway of the Egyptian-cluttered section of the Smithsonian storage room, off into the darkness, and towards the sounds of the two men coming from somewhere overhead, somewhere above; away from the red stone, my red stone. It was hard to leave, very hard. So hard that I didn't know if I could do it…But I didn't look back. When you face something hard, something painful, you never look back. Ever heard of the tales of the ancient Greeks? Or how about one of the stories in the great book of I Am, the Bible? Those tales should only prove you should never look back. Bad things happen when you look back.

I knew that the bad thing that would happen to me would be I would not be able to leave. Never. Not even with the demanding being of Fate urging me, pushing me, onward, away from the red brick, I couldn't leave if I looked back. So I didn't. I was, once again, obedient to Fate, with its many twists of life it seemed to have in store for me…some of them seemed quite cruel. Ever so cruel…But when you live life, you have to take the good as well as the bad. For, as the ancient Chinese used to say, "_The miracle is not to fly in the air, or walk on water, but to walk on the earth."_ Be grateful: it'll get you places.

And so I followed my scent trail back along the path I had come, jumping over storage items when I had to, curbing around them when I didn't; I didn't feel in such of a wonderful mood anymore. I padded onward, setting my pace at a brisk trot, making sure of myself that I would not miss the men, and neither their new shipment. Fate had told me to, and I would obey. Forward I made my trail, following the pathway of my scent, not barely having faded seeing as there were no elements for it to weather here, down here in the bottom of the storage room, padding through the darkened corridors, trotting swiftly and surely through the florescent-lit hallways, always following the same trail that I had taken here. And, as expected, slowly but surely the shouts of the men grew louder, more defined and clear, as they didn't echo quite so much as I put fewer walls between myself and them. By the sound of it, they were still struggling to put whatever they had knocked down back into place, and quite a time it sounded they were having. Groaning, moaning, shouting, growling, whimpering, and cursing galore, not that I will go into any detailed description, mind you. I will simply leave you to wonder yourself of just what they were saying.

Still padding along the trail of my own way, I found myself heading up one set of stairs-no more than five steps at the most; I hadn't bothered to count-trotting my way through many, many corridors and alleys in my labyrinth of a home, then found myself heading down the steps of another set of stairs, probably the exact same amount of steps as the one I had passed over before. And, all the while, as each step I took brought my farther and farther away from my now, once again, lost treasure, I found the throb of pain, of longing, for the red brick growing a little less harsh, a little less hard, in the pit of my heart, my soul. But it still ached.

I wasn't too sure it would ever cease to ache again.

**cCcCcCcC**

**Another chapter written and posted. It was a little-very, very little-more exciting than the previous two chapters, though still not wham, bam, IN YOUR FACE exciting. That'll come later, I promise. Sorry for any spelling or grammar errors that I may have missed; I did go through it with spell-check, but I may have missed some... But anyways, I hope you enjoyed it and, since I already have the other chapter written I'll be posting it today, too. :3 Thank you for reading and PLEASE review! **


	4. Chapter 3

**Another chapter, a cutoff from chapter 2 which, after seeing the word count and the big fat 10k sign right in my face, I decided to cut it into two chapters. I hope you enjoy this one, which is (technically) on time, as its Sunday and this is the third chapter, and PLEASE review! Again, thanks to my two loyal reviewers! ^3^**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Night at the Museum. Only my cat.**

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I walked on.

It wasn't long before I passed out of the old, regular soft florescent lighting and was suddenly bathed in a bright wash of a bright haze of many lights-all coming from on high, way above and over my head. Looking up, I saw that I wasn't just walking by the light of the couple of bulbs that were left on to keep me in touch with my sanity: _all _the lights were on, each and every one of them. More than likely, the two dingbat workers had probably turned on the whole system. Not shocking, not at all. Very typical for when a new shipment was due, for the workers to turn on the light system. Definitely a big jump from those few skimpy florescent bulbs, but not new. Not giving much of a slight care-as I see just as very well in the usual dark as in the light-I didn't take much time pondering upon it. Returning my eyes to my trail, I moved on.

It was a good five or so minutes before I reached the entrance to the storage room, even at my brisk pace, sometimes setting myself into quick bursts of speed to quicken my way there.

I was just coming from behind another gorilla shelf when I first caught a glimpse of the men, two of them-and the semi car. Not very muck caring it either caught sight of me, I didn't bother to stop in the shadow of the jumbo shelf; I just simply walked on into the next hallway, feeling the golden light of the florescent lights shining down onto me fur. The men, first off, were two of the typical types that you would find loading and unloading storage: a bit scruffy, one with a thick, frizzy gray beard that, had it been white, would have made him look like the character people call Santa Claus; the other was shaven, but had a bit of stubble around his lower jaw. They both wore the typical jeans, gray T-shirts-with chest pockets-, one wore a beat up baseball cap with YANKEES printed grandly across the front, and both sported security passes, granted to them probably by the night guards-or, I guess it could be the daytime guards-so that they could make entrance without having security high on their tails. Very, extremely typical.

Stopping behind a shelf who's bottom ledge was pretty bare of items, allowing a good view, and admitting myself to take a brief rest-as well as watching the activity of the two grunting, muttering, growling men from a bit of a safe distance. Don't fancy getting crushed by one of those heavy objects they were moving, you know? I had already determined that these two were not going to be the most careful people in all the world…-I took care to wrap my tail neatly around my paws and watched, whiskers twitching slightly from both amusement and distaste at their nearly every-other-word cursing, that of which didn't sound any less harsher from where I was now sitting compared to down where I had formerly been. Quite a colorful language these two had, and quite fancy names they came up for the objects they had knocked over, one of which happened to be a rather small blue crate, something which I guessed had been knocked down from a nearby gorilla shelf. I had no clue of what it was filled with, seeing as this home of mine holds many surprises, though I could guess from the two's straining it was something rather heavy, even for a duo grown men.

They were somewhat entertaining as they tried to get the crate back up to its original place-not that high, really-and I, even with my own dignified and well-mannered self, did crack a bit of a smile as one of the two-the YANKEES cap fellow-managed to miss a footing on the cement floor-somewhat slippery for both boots and claws, something I learned the hard way-and drop the whole thing on the other man's foot, that of which, upon impact, he howled profusely, spitting and snarling like an angered, old, battle-worn tom-tiger would, the other guy, as any creature in their right mind who had just angered an old tiger-tom, taking a couple of quick steps back, eyes wide. Quite a fit the man who's had his toes crushed threw, calling his partner an idiot and a moron, and I happened to break a grin at that. But it was only a little grin, a very little one.

As the hissy-fit of the one particular worker went on a little longer, him now snarling at YANKEES Cap to get over and help him, the 'dumb moron', I turned my eyes away from them and towards the thing, a vehicle, that had made the machine-like purring earlier, remembering that it wasn't the two men I had come for, had left my long lost possession for, answering the call of Fate for, knowing it had been for the cargo. Not the men.

The machine was a pretty common object of transportation to see down here when a new shipment arrived-more than once I had often watched them, just out of boredom and, dare I admit, need of hearing human voices-seeing other living things-again-. It was one of those things that people load on heavy objects to, something they can't carry themselves, that they drove to where they wanted to drop the object. I, not knowing the exact name, shall call it a lift. It was a bit of a beat-up old thing, paint scratched off here and there, though you could tell it had once been a rather lovely shade of navy blue-if the paint on a thing like that could be called lovely. On one side, it had a logo, probably the name of its company, **BUCK** it said, and on the other side, of which I couldn't see, I suspected that it either said the same thing or was blank. I supposed one of two workers had been driving the thing and had accidentally knocked into a storage item that had been hanging slightly off the shelf above them, something quite common down here, and hadn't known they were going to hit it until it already had happened, which was somewhat of a shame. After all, whatever had been in there very well could have broken. That wouldn't have been good. But I didn't worry: rarely did it seem that much was retrieved from down here anyway, most probably never to be put on public display in a museum again. Sort of sad for the exhibits, seeing as they had been made for the purpose of telling about people's lives but were never able to fulfill that promise-or, at least not for forever. Kind of disheartening. But, coming from my view on the subject, I guess that suited me all right. After all, the fewer people that bother with things down here, the less I have to see people, which is pleasant. Not that I don't sometimes get sick of being alone, but I'm a cat; we are solitary creatures by nature. It is only right for me to want to be alone most of the time.

But anyways, back on topic. It was after I had finished my study of the little lifting vehicle that the new storage was set upon that I looked towards the actual shipment of new storage itself.

First off, I can tell you it wasn't anything new. Nothing at all. Not even slightly different from most of the other shipments that arrive, which is not very many, but still. It was a semi car, a pretty decently sized one at that. Nothing especially large or very small. It was colored in a regular, pretty common and boring shade of plain red. A very common, simple red. Not that all especially dark or not especially bright or light-tinted, either. Just a plain, old, simple red, like almost every other semi car that happens to make its way down here, which is quite a few. On the side that was viewable to me from my standpoint, it was pretty much blank. I'm sure it had a few words somewhere on it, maybe a logo or the company name on the other side, but nothing from what I could see. Not that it much mattered to me; after all, what's a company name when you're a cat? Not like your going to be in much need of semi cars to store stuff in. Especially when you live at the bottom of the largest museum in all the world. Quite especially then. But, as an overall, I can tell you that this new shipment, from what I could see, was nothing at all new. In fact, it was pretty normal, and not only was the sight of it normal, it didn't even seem to have a mysterious aura or anything unnatural about it, something of which you might, well, expect when Fate points you towards something…especially when that something takes you away from your most prized possession in all the world. Because that's pretty much what I was expecting. But you must remember that not everything in life is clear at first, and that I did recall as I gave another unconvinced look over this new addition-this, supposedly, new _and_ important addition-into my life, something that was so important that Fate itself seemed to think that it simply had to make an interference, point me down the path to my next destination in life…Because when Fate seems to think it itself has to direct you down the next path in life, you'd better guess it's serious. That's certainly what I guessed. And, even though I didn't yet see exactly why this new direction my life was taking was so important, I was willing to put up without the knowledge-not that I didn't want to know what turn my life was now taking, mind you-until it, or Fate, maybe, revealed it to me. Then would I know…But then was not now.

However, I can wait. After all, I'm a cat: I have all the time in the world. That I very much do.

By now, after having taken at least a good five to eight minutes or so-not that anyone was counting-the two dingbat workers, of which I have decided to call YANKEES Cap and Santa Beard, in recognition of the man's beard, had finally managed to get the blue crate back, though not totally securely, into place. I was pretty sure it wouldn't fall, but it was pretty much half hanging off the shelf ledge, not that I thought it would manage to hurt anyone, but it still looked a little precarious. But that I decided to ignore. The two men, though more or less pretty much Santa Beard, were still grumbling when they finally got back to their real quarry, the cargo, of which was still ever-so-patiently waiting upon the little old, beat-up blue lift, unmoving and silent as ever. Growling to himself still, Santa Beard climbed up and took the wheel, rounding on YANKEES Cap when he tried to take the set instead, snapping, "Oh, no! I think _I'll _do the driving this time. Don't want to run in to anything else." Climbing into the driver's seat, YANKEES, though grudgingly, backing off, Santa Beard turned the key, bringing the machine back to life, its purring grumbling as the motor resumed on, beginning again its slight shaking of the ground underneath my paws. I twitched one ear: I didn't really like it when it did that. Sort of annoying, and it also kind of set me off balance, that of which I very much didn't appreciate; I scowled at the little machine. Meanwhile, as his partner starting the get the gears in place, YANKEES Cap kept his feet on the ground, also still grumbling, though not audibly. I could tell from the movement of his lips and the way he glared off to the side.

They started off, Santa Beard maneuvering both the lift and the plain red semi car through the somewhat narrow main way, following the path farther back into the storage room to where they were supposed to drop the car off. Watching them, still sitting for a moment more, I flicked my tail-tip, wondering yet again just what Fate's plan for me in this was. Then, rising lightly and silently, like the dangerous and mysterious little animal I was, I followed.

As they made their way slowly forward, I kept to the side, following, usually a couple of aisles down or so from the workers and the new shipment, not only because it gave them less of a chance at catching a glance of me but also because it was quieter the farther I got from that annoying machine of who's rumblings made my ears ring, as did the trembling of the ground slightly lessen under-paw as the motor churned and shook itself into movement, shaking the ground.

The two men pretty much made no more as the conversation as they made their way farther, though not exactly carefully, into the storage vault. They, having turned on the lights system, didn't so much have to stick to the more lighted paths as they did the right paths, of which I think they took a few wrong turns more than once and we all ended up having to backtrack a ways, which was annoying, but did I have much else better to do than follow these guys? Nah. Not really. So I kept trailing after them.

It was after about twenty minutes, four backtracks and a couple of shouts later that they finally made it to where the designated spot for the new cargo was. I, having kept about two aisles down for this part of the journey, made myself rather comfortable up on a high shelf to watch the two men unload below. They did it quick and, surprisingly, without much trouble, lowering the thing to the ground and dropping it off. Then they took their old, battered blue lift with the company name **BUCK** on it a drove away. I waited until the murmur of the machine's engine had faded and gone and waited even a bit longer for the lights to turn off-not that they did, so I just eventually gave up and decided the two men forgot to turn them off-before I decided to get down, at last take a good look at this thing which seemed, according to the direction of Fate, so suddenly important to me and my life.

Jumping easily and without fear and landing very lightly upon my soot-colored paws, I blinked my eyes at the red semi car, now only a few yards from me, sitting quiet and nice, like a good semi car, or any semi car, should sit. Pricking one ear, rather lazily, in its direction, I determined that I still didn't feel any certain or special pulse that I might expect to feel around this car, the one Fate seemed to direct me to, forcing me to leave my precious red brick just simply to see. Cocking my head at it, looking at it in an unconvinced manner, I set forth to take a look around it, maybe looking for a way to get it, seeing as I couldn't very well, with my small size, lift up that pretty fancy looking lock on the door, stalking a circle around the thing and, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, stopping, once again, in my former spot, now scowling at the car, tail-tip twitching in irritation. After all, what was so special about this thing? It was only a new shipment, and it very much didn't seem like any special new shipment…Why had Fate directed me to this and only just after I had once again found my long-lost red stone, the one I had longed for for so long…? It all didn't make sense.

Giving my tail a lash, I curled my lip at the semi car, glaring now, eyes fierce and dark. What had I done to deserve this? I was a good cat, I did my job fairly well, rarely letting a rat or mouse get past me, giving them quick punishment with my vengeful claws, ready to be drawn at any time. And I had never hurt-not scratched nor bitten-a night guard of the museum who came to water or feed me, not even the ones who picked me up with their gentle but clumsy hands! Could I not be given credit for that? Even when they were the most clumsy of people, I had restrained myself from biting them. I had! At least Fate could have given me a way to get in the thing, see what was so important…But no! No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Fate had _not_ given me a way in. Fate had _not _given me credit for all my good deeds-all right, not good deeds, but restraint from performing bad deeds when they were well deserved-. And Fate had _not_ allowed me to keep the only thing that gave me hope, gave me peace and happiness, even if, with it, it brought back a great sadness. No. Fate had not even allowed me to keep that. I know Fate works in mysterious, sometimes not understandable ways, but this, if anything, was a little over the top, even for me. I know, I seem to be getting worked up over nothing-nothing!-but, truly, I am very much fed up with Fate, Fate an all its mysterious ways-Ha! Dumb ways if you ask me. I have waited a long, long time for Fate to reveal itself to me, a promise that has never been fulfilled and now…and now, when I'm so close-_so_ close-to taking another step toward receiving that promise, Fate has thrown another obstacle at me, another thing for me to tackle and figure out in my life…And I'm tired of it. Just plain and simply tired. I don't care if something good eventually comes from this; I'm alive _now_! I've waited quite long enough! Why can't I just get this all over with _now_?

I didn't know. I just didn't know. And, suddenly in a furious fit of rage as I fumed over Fate and all its mysterious and uncomprehending ways, I turned tail from the new shipment and fled. Simply fled, not caring where I was going, just going somewhere. Somewhere to get away from that accursed car, get away from that ugly, old, plain red car. Anywhere was better than there!

And it was for the rest of the day-or, I think it was the rest of the day-that I spent my time alone, away from that cursed red car, going anywhere but that car. I spent my time reading, just reading. Reading, reading, reading, reading. And more reading. I read about Caesar, ruler of Rome. I read about George Washington, the first president of the grand old United States. I read about Davy Crockett, a fighter at the Alamo, a guy who even had a folk song named after him. I read about Aristotle, a wondrous philosopher of his time. I read about English kings. I read about great battles, reading of both the sides who won, and the sides who lost. I read about far away places, some good, some bad. I read about ancient beliefs, tales from the _Iliad_ even. I read about people who invented things, people who destroyed things. I read about terrible rulers in history, along with the good ones. I read about voyages, explorations. I read about man's first flight, his first flight to the moon. I read about animals, courageous creatures who helped their mater's shape, mold, history. I read about…things…many things. I read about many, many things…And it still wasn't enough. The rage, the fury, the absolute hatred I had felt at Fate, for leading me on a way to disappointment, setting my hopes high, but letting me fall, again, still burned like a white hot bonfire inside of me, singing me from the inside out. It was all just a bit too much, even for a cat. I was angry, and yet nothing I did could help me. Nothing.

It was after a very long while that I eventually just stumbled off into sleep, exhausted, surrounded by my home, lying a the bottom of one of the many hallways throughout the storage room vault, lying far underground the biggest museum in all world history. I was exhausted. Simply exhausted. It did not take but a heartbeat for sleep to come. At least one still looked down upon me in favor in this world. At least one…

My sleep was dreamless, silent. I liked that.

I awoke on my own terms, supposing I had slept for, oh, a few hours at the most, I didn't know. As I've said, there is no way to keep track of time down here. Only your heartbeat, that of which doesn't much help you determine the hours or the days. Just a steady, comforting, strong beat that keeps the time ticking, going on. Keeps you sane, along the with couple of florescent lights.

I woke up and did what I usually do when I first wake up: I yawned. Then I stretched. Then sat down, raised a paw, gave it a lick, twitched a whisker, the usual. Flicking my tail-tip, I gave a glance over my surroundings; still at the bottom of the hallway. Simply one of many. One of very many.

I sat for a while longer, just looking around, feeling the peace, relishing the silence, sitting in contentment. This…_This_ was how life was supposed to be. All the time. Never noisy, no intruding, bumbling idiots that are paid to 'load' new stock into the storage vaults, no loud machinery…and no more invasions of stupid Fate with all its stupid ideas for my life. Especially no more of that. Just silence, just peace, just calm…just me. Me and the manikins. That's all. Just me, the manikins, and my conscious. That is all. That's it…

It was a rumble of my stomach that brought me up to my paws, sent padding down the aisle into the next, heading back towards the entrance of the storage room. My mind works like a compass when it comes to the entrance; wherever I am in the storage room, I can always find the entrance. Always. I don't know how, I just can. Sixth sense, I guess.

It only took me a few moments to get there, and, when I did, I set myself about the task of eating which was, despite many's opinions, not the most pleasant thing for me to do, seeing as the food is cardboard-dry, has absolutely no flavor, and is like chewing on wood…Not that I ever had chewed on wood. I mean, really, _why_ in the name of cats would I ever do that? Why? It's just that it's what I _think_ wood tastes like, is all. And it's gross. Absolutely disgusting. Give me a muddy rat to chew on over this any day. _Repulsing. _But it's all I got, and when you only have one option, you take it. Simple as that. You get moving and you do it. And that's exactly what I do.

It was after a few mouthfuls that I decided that I was full enough and, instead, turned to my water bowl which contains probably-no, definitely-_not_ the best water I've ever tasted. Definitely. I've tasted much better water in my lifetime…much, cooler…fresher water. Ever tried rainwater? Now _that_, my friend, is real water. When you drink rainwater, you're, truly, drinking the water of the gods, truly are. For what other water has ever tasted so fresh, so…pure, as rainwater, eh? Or how about can you name for me any other water that rains down from the heavens? None. Not one! Absolutely no other can compare with that of rainwater…well, maybe except river water. River water is pretty good as well, also water of the gods, I'm sure. Quite positive, in fact. For what else can compare with the fierce, rushing, commanding, unpredictable torrent of the river? What other water is, oh, so magnificent as that of the river, with its many wild undercurrents and terrible whitewaters? Its forever rumbling roar or its ever-continuing current? Again, my friend, the answer is none. Not one.

This water, however, as per usual, is somewhat sour-not sitting water, but rather sour-and it holds that ever-so-repulsing taste of the stuff humans call _chlorine_. Absolutely nasty stuff that is. How can people drink this? Ugh! …But, seeing as all have their own cup of tea, own likes and appreciates and whatnot, I guess that, maybe, perhaps, you people just can't taste the stuff. Maybe your taste buds are not…as sensitive as mine. Who knows? For you will, most likely, never be a cat and I…well, I will most likely never be a human. Therefore, who is to judge? None. Absolutely no one.

It was after I had eaten and drank my fill that I go about my usual routine, turning around, my back to the water and food now, sitting, raising up a paw to lick it, setting it back down, evaluating each and every one of the many dark, twisting corridors I had to choose from, blinking, thinking, sitting a while longer, then, eventually, getting up to my paws, tail now held high in the air, and I began to walk down the chosen hallway, padding off into the darkness without the least care in the world, not wondering what-or who-just might be lurking down this dark alleyway, one of many in this labyrinth. Nor concerning myself if it be that I will become lost in my wanderings…No, no. None of that do I concern myself with. I simply walked on, tail held high, chin up, paws lifted precisely off the ground in my very particular manner, my mind set on no very distinct thing. Just wandering. Like my body, my mind was wandering, wandering and going off to wherever it may go in this silence that surrounds me…whatever it may come to, though it may pause a moment, it heads on, not giving to much thought to each and every individual thing, just glancing here, there, then moving onwards, forever onwards…Just like me. Exactly like me.

I followed my chosen corridor for a little while, not being completely sure of the exact time, but a while, and then it widened out, opening into a bit of a…oh, might I call it a _clearing? _Well…I guess it could be called that. But the corridor very much did widen, opening out into a much larger space_-_not at all something unusual in the storage room, but something I hadn't come across in a while-, for once free of storage shelves and boxes and knick-knack storage items, it all being lighted by a trio of florescent lamps high overhead, casting their soft gold light over the entire space of the clearing before eventually fading off into shadow as I turned my eyes towards the corridor openings that surrounded it. The only thing that interrupted the space was a rather large blue semi car, parked right smack dab in the very middle of the cleared area.

I paused a moment as I came out of my corridor, half of me still in the darkness, the other bathed softly in the golden florescent light, taking my fur from a dark, sooty gray to a pale silvery-gold, taking my silver tabby stripes and turning them to a pale blonde-ish, gray color. I'm sure my eyes simply glittered with light, flashing at each and every movement I made. I didn't know for sure, though, seeing as I cannot see my eyes. But I can guess.

I was quite sure I had passed this place before, numerous times, in fact. And neither had I avoided the place or specifically gone here in search of anything particular. No, I had passed through quite a few times, I was sure. And it definitely wasn't special. It was just a clearing, an open space right in the middle of the storage room of the biggest museum in all world history, supposedly.

I'm really not too sure what made me pause for the moment; surely not anything that was out of the ordinary going on around the place, nor were there any sudden loud noises or voices or anything of the such…it was just that…I felt something. Something as in…something _different…_Very different…Something I hadn't felt in…I think it must have been in forever. But it was something, that it definitely was. And, as it passed, it made me shudder. Absolutely shudder. From whisker to tail-tip, I felt myself jolt, quake in a rolling, wave-like motion that went through my whole body, almost as if I had just heard something monstrously terrible, something insanely horrible. And then, to my surprise and even-growing fear, I felt the hair on my neck, my hackles and tail, too, stand straight up. Straight as a nail, my fur stood on end, prickling my neck, my back, making me stand rigidly stiff. Unconsciously, my claws slid out of their sheaths, trying to dig themselves into the cold, hard, dusty cement underpaw. They scraped fiercely, one, I was sure, even broke, but I didn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything but that terrible feeling that was passing through me, making me shudder, making my hair stand on end, making me afraid.

For a split second, my heart stopped, just simply stopped.

For once, everything was truly silent.

Time seemed to pass like years, decades, centuries maybe even, but it truly only lasted for a heartbeat, that of which, despite my terror, I was able to count…Then it was gone. As soon as it left, I felt my fur instantly flatten, my shuddering came to an abrupt stop, my claws slid back into my paws, silent and quick as they had come out. The feeling left me, left like a bird taking flight from a cage…just simply and quickly left, as if it wanted to break free from me…Maybe it did. But it was gone. It was gone and, at the moment, that was really all I cared about. The only thing that didn't leave me was my fear, but it dulled as soon as the feeling came away from me. However, it did not leave me completely, just dulled, like pain receding from a stabbing, sharp hurt to a duller, aching throb.

I found myself standing there for a moment, just standing and staring, staring around me, as if I were in a dream and, for a heartbeat or so, I swear I thought I was. Or maybe I should have called it a nightmare, that feeling was so terrifying. But then I felt a sharp, spearing pain in one paw and I looked down, seeing, though not totally registering, a small white shard of a thing lying on the ground, a tiny puddle of blood surrounding it. As well, one of my toes was bleeding, if only a drop, but bleeding all the same. I realized it was a claw, one of my claws. My first thought was, _Can you bleed in a dream?_ and I thought for a moment, trying to remember back to other dreams, trying to think of one in which I bled. I didn't remember one, though I do remember quite a few where I saw others, ones I loved, lying bleeding, broken, twisted…Perhaps they were not so much as dreams as much as they were memories, which only added to my already rather terrified fear, seeing as I had just determined that I could not bleed in a dream, of which I really was bleeding. Therefore, I determined, this was real. My fear only grew.

It was for another few long, very long, moment that I stood, just staring and listening to the throb of my heartbeat through the silence, something usually so comforting but which happened to be little comfort to me now, seeing as it _had_ stopped, only if for just a moment. But it very much had stopped.

My ears pricked when I heard the first sound, the first voice. It wasn't coming from too far away, really, that I determined with ease, my delicate ears swiveling to pick up the sound, make it clearer. For a heartbeat or so, I thought it might just be a worker bringing in a new shipment, his voice sounding close because he was close. But then I remembered that I had not heard the rumbling rising of the storage entrance, but then again it could be a very small shipment, something one could very easily bring in by themselves…Then, as my bogged down mind, slowed from the fear that continued to throb inside the pit of my stomach, radiating throughout the rest of my body, thought a bit further, it occurred to me that a new shipment had only just arrived in yesterday. Could it…could it really be that they were bringing in a new shipment two days in a row…? Something very, very unusual, but still not totally impossible… My breathing quickened, thinned. I felt like I couldn't get in quiet enough air.

Then a loud, even menacing, crash sounded in my ears, deafened them for a moment, as if something huge had just thrown down a heavy metal door, the object bouncing over and over as it hit the ground, ringing. My fur again stood on end, my eyes widening.

Then, and I can barely describe how it truly sounded it was so sudden, so terrifying, I swear, it was like every possible sound in the whole world sounded, from a elephant's trumpet to a gun's cracking fire, from a motor's rumble to a horse's whinny, from a bell's ding to a man's shout, from a child's laugh to a lion's roar…and so very, very many more, so very many others…They all came at me at once, from behind, in front, to my right, to my left, to every single place imaginable. It, once again, deafened me for a moment, made my ears ring and flatten straight to me head, my tail fluff twice its size, my remaining claws spring out a desperately dig and claw at the cold, hard ground, my body, instinctively flatten, and my eyes snap closed. Horror filled my mind and beautifully colored, wondrous lights flashed behind my eyelids, like firecrackers, very pretty…Until I heard the single, terribly ominous fraise of words come from behind me, a simple sentence, really, uttered by whom I supposed from the tone of the voice was a man, a man with a very deep, murmuring, lulling voice, "Well, what do we have here?" and I, being in the already frightened-no, mortified-state that I was, without thinking, sprang to my feet, whirling a three-sixty without so much more than a twitch of my muscles, my eyes shooting open, the colors fading instantly…only to be replaced by a more dazzling sight. Quite very much more dazzling.

For there, all the way straight down the hallway of which I had just walked down-back when it was silent and peaceful, just me and the manikins…-appearing from each and every single jumbo shelf, off of each ledge and each box and each and every place imaginable, were living creatures. Living, breathing, seeing, heart-beat-filled creatures. And, right in front of me, stood a tall man, quite a very tall man, with dark hair and a beard and a thin but good face. And it was in that instant I knew, I just knew, that, suddenly, for some reason yet unknown to me, everything, _every single thing little, possible thing _in this vault, the storage room_, _had come to life.

For that second, a mere heartbeat which seemed to last for a long, very long, time, I forgot how to breath.

**dDdDdDdDdD**

**Finally! A little more excitement and a bit of a more splashy chapter! :D Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed, and REVIEW! Oh, and I promise another chapter will be on here by next Sunday-promise. If you don't see another chapter, that means I'm probably dead. O.o But anyways, thank you for reading!**


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